


On the Outside

by FrenchRoast



Category: Batman Begins (2005)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 01:18:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1761637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchRoast/pseuds/FrenchRoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A week after Bruce foils Ra's plans, Crane is still on the loose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A week after Ra’s Al Ghul had torched Bruce Wayne’s mansion, the billionaire had moved to the humble apartment of one Rachel Dawes. Moonlight steamed through the open blinds covering the door to her second-story balcony; Bruce rolled over on Rachel’s futon. He was exhausted, but sleep more difficult to catch than Gotham’s elusive criminal population. Bruce looked up at the ceiling and began a mental run through of the roster Gordon had shared with him. Crane. The Joker. Zsazs. Scarecrow…Crane again.  
  
After living with Rachel for only a couple of days, Bruce had begun to sympathize with anyone who had to work with her on a regular basis. He knew how tempting Ra’s approach to villainy had been, considering he had been one short step from it himself. Had he possessed a shred more fear, Gotham’s fate would have been much changed. He had decided Crane couldn’t be so different from himself; they both fought fear with fear.  
  
Rachel emerged from her bedroom in a pair of yellow silk pajamas. For a second, Bruce thought he saw four nipples indenting her pajama top, but he shrugged that thought off. Something about Batman and nipples didn’t sit well with him.  
  
“Midnight snack?” he asked, sitting up. His own pajamas were coarse; after years of not-quite-Egyptian-cotton, he felt odd sleeping in fabrics like silk.  
  
“Want some popcorn?”  
  
He leaned his head to look into the kitchen. “Sure.”  
  
“Butter or kettle?”  
  
“Your pick.” He got up from the futon and walked into the kitchen as she put a package into the microwave.  
  
“Gordon said they found another escapee today.”  
  
“Crane?” Rachel asked.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Why can’t they find him?” she said, her voice slightly shrill. She slammed two bowls onto the countertop. “He organized the entire thing. It’s his fault that boy, Tucker—“  
  
“DING!” sang the microwave, far too cheerily considering Rachel’s sudden melodramatics, but cheerily nonetheless. Microwaves really just want everyone to be happy.  
  
“Tucker died thanks to Crane,” she finished, glaring at the microwave.  
  
Bruce sighed. “It was Ra’s Al Ghul, Rachel. We’ve been over this,” he said, reaching out to stroke the toaster resting on the countertop next to one of the empty popcorn bowls. “Crane was a pawn. _I_ was nearly a pawn.”  
  
“But you weren’t.” She opened the microwave and pulled out the fat, steaming bag of popcorn. A buttery smell filled the kitchen.  
  
“I wasn’t, but it’s not as black and white as that.” Bruce pulled his attention away from the toaster with some difficulty and looked Rachel in the eye. "It's not."  
  
“You didn’t see him in Arkham, Bruce. Jonathan Crane is evil as far as I’m concerned.”  
  
Bruce took the hot bag from her, opened it, and poured popcorn into the two bowls as he mulled over a response. But there was nothing he could say.  
  
“Let’s go watch Jon Stewart,” he offered. He smiled, and the mood inside the apartment lightened as they left the kitchen.  
  
Perched in the tree outside amidst the chirping of cicadas, a dark figure could only see well-defined shadows. He touched his left hand to his cheek, fingers gliding over the fresh scabs. His right clutched a frayed burlap sack, even as the salty buttered scent wafted into the tree. Taking in a sharp breath, the corn smell sent him reeling briefly back to high school, the jeering and the blood, most of it his; finally the sight of two figures sitting on the futon returned him to the present.  
  
Silently, Jonathan Crane wished for a black futon and a toaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is rated M due to content in later chapters.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Batman/Bruce Wayne, Dr. Jonathan Crane, or his Scarecrow persona. I do own a microwave and a toaster, though.

Jonathan Crane opened his eyes; this time, his wish for a black futon wasn’t founded in a longing for, at the bare minimum, a friendship. No, he wished he had a black futon now because falling asleep on a patch of damp sod in the outskirts of Gotham sounded much more comfortable than it was.  
  
 _It wouldn’t have to be a black futon_ , Jonathan thought. _Any color would do._ Maybe turquoise, an almost cotton candy/Valium blue turquoise, or the pale blue shade on the peel of a ripe, unplucked blueberry. Then the futon would match his eyes as well as his favorite sweater vest. _On the other hand, black might be more common_ , he reasoned.  
  
It was a week and a day since his release from Arkam; he still didn’t dare return to his apartment, not even for that sweater vest. Not that he needed to go back for anything beyond the sweater vest. Perhaps his toaster. If he had an electrical outlet in the tree he was sleeping under, he could use the toaster as a mini heater even as it toasted bread. But trees are supposed to conserve energy, not send it out into the world, so alack, there was no outlet in the tree. _And toast wouldn’t be the same without jam. Berry…the rasp kind, preferably. With seeds. Gotta have seeds._  
  
He gave up on sleep for the moment, standing up; he popped his back. He considered donning his mask, but Halloween was another day away, and it was too obvious at the moment. To the east, the sunrise was rising like a pumpkin’s innards being scooped out by the hand of God.  
  
“Must stop the Bruce stalking until I can reorganize myself,” he said. “And no more of this talking to myself, either. Could you _pretend_ to be any more psychotic than they already assume you are, Jonathan?” Who better to impersonate a lunatic than one who studies them? But this inner dialogue was getting to be a little too frequent. He needed to get back to Arkham. There would be test results waiting on him, even in the midst of the city’s chaos; the interns knew better than to drop his research.  
  
Batman would not be immune to the Scarecrow’s next weapon. But first, he would need a disguise…  
  


********  
  
Bruce awoke on the futon with a craving for toast, toast slathered with butter and smeared with sanguine globs of sticky raspberry preserves if at all possible. He looked around wildly as he stumbled into the kitchen. There was the gleaming toaster, his reflection blurred by the curves of its bulky body. Bruce picked it up.  
  
The microwave was instantly jealous; it was mounted into the wall above the oven. It would never be held by a loved one. The microwave glowered, watching the toaster’s indifference to what it so wanted, and in that moment, the microwave metamorphosed from a cheerful romantic into a spiteful cynic. Life was no more than cruel misuse and abuse; only yesterday, Rachel had microwaved a bowl of Chef Boyardee Spaghetti and Meatballs for Bruce with nothing to cover the bowl. Salty orange sauce still violated the microwave’s once pure insides.  
  
But Bruce, like most men, was oblivious to the microwave’s pain, even as he shoved a thick hunk of bread into the toaster’s small slit. He fumbled for the bulbous switch jutting forth from the toaster’s smooth exterior and pushed down, hard. The toaster warmed as it accepted the large slice of whole grain goodness inside, cleaving to it with its hot inner metal grates.  
  
While the bread did its thing with the toaster, Bruce got butter, a knife, and scrounged through the fridge for some jam.  
  
“Seedless preserves? What kind of wimp can’t handle seeds in their raspberry jam?” he wondered. Then he remembered he was in the home of a woman who thought tasering was an end-all solution to crime.


	3. Chapter 3

Jonathan Crane contemplated the various means available to him for infiltrating Arkham Asylum. The basement exits would still be cordoned off by the police, and the third floor walkway from the hospital would be guarded more carefully.

As he entered through the street entrance, easily slipping past the one cop on duty, Jonathan smiled to himself. _It’s true. The Force does have an effect on the weak-minded._ He took the front spiral stairs up to the fourth floor where his office was located, rightfully trusting that the staircase would be empty. He passed his secretary’s desk on the way to his office, noticing that she had listened to his advice and taken her two weeks vacation. Or she had simply left, since he hadn’t been around to deal with patients.

Upon trying the door, Dr. Crane realized the lock had been changed; he frowned, looking the door over. He needed to get inside if he could. Then he spied the hinges on the outside. He just needed a screwdriver or two. One for the door, another to drink.

“Where does she keep the little tool kit?” he wondered to himself as he began opening drawers. Upon finding vodka but no orange juice, he changed his plans and used the cranberry and grapefruit juices his secretary had left in the fridge to make a Seabreeze instead. He wasn’t much for drinking, but some weeks called for it more than others. The week after his plans for Gotham’s rehabilitation went awry required more alcohol than any other.

He drank as he hunted for the tool kit, finally stumbling upon it in the back corner of the last drawer in her desk. Tossing the rest of his drink in the trash—he really wasn’t much of a drinker—Jonathan unscrewed the hinges from the wall and swung the door open to enter his office.

It was in complete disarray; the Gotham police had searched it thoroughly, and Jonathan was certain that by now, Batman would have as well. Despite the mess, he was certain they’d found nothing of value. He knew this both from the way they’d questioned him a week ago, and because there was nothing of value here unless you knew how to look for it.

The police had focused on the mask, his books on psychotropic drugs, even on the copy of the Evil Overlord list he’d printed off ages ago for a laugh and a TO DO list. They hadn’t so much as glanced at his literature.

“Ignorant fascist Maxwell house coffee-drinkers,” he snerked, stroking the spine of a copy of _Star Wars: The Truce at Bakura_. He pulled a James Joyce out. _Ulysses_. "Can’t really fault them for ignoring that,” he said with a slight sigh. “Overhyped drabble. But this,” he said, groping at a paperback copy of _Breakfast On Pluto_ , “this is a good book.”

He lifted it carefully from its slumber on the bookshelf, and placed it broadside against his face, opening his pink mouth slightly as his two hands gripped the bestselling novel, pulling it down and forcing his bottom lip to open his mouth that much wider. He flicked his tongue across the cover, and then turned it on its side, fingering the edges of the pages. Carefully, he used his thumbs to open Pussy-filled pages, and reached in with his right thumb and index finger to pluck a red sheaf of paper from it, smiling until he realized that someone _had_ found his stashed notes. Instead of his neat handwriting, there was a message scrawled in black ink:

_Ruins of Wayne Manor. 9pm Halloween  
Unless you’re too scared. _

_**The Batman** _


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Batman/Bruce Wayne, Dr. Jonathan Crane/the Scarecrow or anything else. I am a terrible thief and would happily steal them if I could. I also have no idea who invented the toaster, but I don't see why Bruce couldn't be related to them. The toaster is an homage to the Wayne_Crane LJ com.

As the hands of his watch approached half past eight, the Scarecrow arrived early for his Halloween rendezvous; he reveled in the shadows cast by the ruins of the Wayne manor. The remnants of the mansion were filled with the ghosts of past years even as a lone crane overlooked the site; the rebuilding had already begun. The Scarecrow’s eyes searched the ruins as he made his way to the Wayne family cemetery on the edge of the grounds, ever ready for any trap the Bat-Man had waiting for him. This time, the good doctor had more than fear gas to aid him; the Bat-Man had bested him physically the last time, but the scythe the Scarecrow now carried would be more than adequate in a fight.

Several yards ahead, he noticed a dark figure standing next to a white tombstone shaped...somewhat like a toaster...illuminated in the half moon-light. He approached slowly, but was surprised to realize after a few paces that the figure wasn’t the Bat-Man. It was Bruce Wayne accompanied only by a bouquet of chrysanthemums. Dr. Crane’s breath caught in his throat as he stepped forward, and he knew exactly what he wanted.

As Bruce leaned forward to place the flowers on the tomb adjacent to the larger, illuminated, toaster-shaped one, the Scarecrow leaped, forcing him to the leaf covered-ground. The attack caught him off guard, and before he knew it, he was pinned at the foot of the toaster tomb.

“Dr. Crane,” Bruce said in a half growl, struggling to free himself from the grasp Jonathan had on him. A punch connected with his attacker’s jaw, but the Scarecrow had the sharp edge of the scythe pushing against Bruce’s throat.

“Why so formal, Mr. Wayne? We’re about to become much,” here he paused for a moment for dramatic effect, “ _much_ more than friends.”

A look of fear flashed across Bruce’s face, which only made Jonathan’s grin widen all the more. He had anticipated this for so long, and here the opportunity had presented itself as if the holiday were Christmas, and not Halloween.

“What do you want, Crane?”

The Scarecrow shook his head. “It’s Halloween. I’ve given you your trick; now it’s time for my treat.” With that, he wrested Bruce up against the large toaster tomb which bore the name of one of Bruce’s distant great uncles; Bruce remembered briefly a family story involving the invention of toasters, but considering he was now at the mercy of Dr. Crane, he had more pressing matters to concern himself with.

“You’re sick, Crane. You need the antidote to your hallucinogen,” Bruce said. “We can go now and—“

“I don’t care to be returned to Arkham as someone I would’ve been in charge of treating three weeks ago, Bruce.” Keeping the scythe at Bruce’s throat, Dr. Crane reached around the front of Bruce’s waist and pulled at the buckle, undoing it with some difficulty, but finally, the belt was off and Bruce’s expensive pants fell to the ground. Jonathan reached up the millionaire’s shirt and ran his hand over Bruce’s smooth abs, alowly. Then he reached back and undid his own belt buckle. Seconds later, Bruce screamed.

Being taken was so completely different from taking; he’d never known sex could feel like this, and it evoked fears even Ducard hadn’t been able to unearth.

Bruce clung to the toaster tomb as Jonathan clung to him and tried to think of other things, like England, but this was impossible. He’d never thought his next meeting with the Scarecrow would turn into this, and he never thought he’d actually...and even as he was raped by Dr. Crane, Bruce realized the clever doctor didn’t know he was Batman. But the thought flew to the back of his mind as Jonathan built up a rhythm, the two men merging together, and for a few seconds, the Scarecrow was hero and Batman, the villain; Bruce’s body shook with the thrill, but Jonathan was growing more and more uneasy, and finished quickly.

He kept the scythe at Bruce’s throat even as Bruce put his clothes back on, but if he’d known Bruce’s thoughts, he’d have known there was no further need for it. But the Bat-Man has broken his appointment, or seemed to have, and this made the Scarecrow nervous. He left in haste, knocking Bruce out with the flat side of his scythe.

******  
Late the next morning, Bruce awoke, slumped against the large tomb, to the sound of his cell phone. “Bruce Wayne,” he mumbled.

“Where are you?”

“Rachel? What time is it?”

“You’re thirty minutes late for brunch, and Gordon was getting worried. Are you okay?”

“What? Of course. I just...” he paused, noticing the chrysanthemums strewn about, and the near presence of the toaster-shaped tombstone. It _had_ really happened. “I just lost track of time out here in the cemetery.”

“Bruce, it’s not healthy to spend all your time out there.”

“Don’t worry, I’m on my way. And Rachel?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t let Gordon eat all the toast.”


End file.
